


Commiseration

by titaniumOvaries



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Family, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Family, Gen, Male Friendship, OFF AU, OFF Kink Meme, Oneshot, Optimism, POV Second Person, coping parents, daddy batter, daddy zacharie, daughter sucre, not fluff but also not dark??, pessimism, short fic, terminally ill children, unusual friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:08:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titaniumOvaries/pseuds/titaniumOvaries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A father bitter about his terminally ill son and pessimistic about the future meets an optimistic and hopeful man in his same situation. This is an OFF Hospital AU written for a prompt on the OFF kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Commiseration

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was: "Bitter Pessimist Daddy Batter with terminally ill Son Hugo meets Hopeful Optimistic Daddy Zacharie with severely injured never-going-to-be-the-same-again Daughter Sugar."
> 
> This was my first time writing for Zacharie! I'm actually rather happy with how this came out. :-)

A nurse gave you a picture today. At first you were stopped-- a nasally voice: "Only family members are allowed visitation rights"-- but you bit back your fury and calmly told the person behind the counter that you _were_ a family member, you were his _father_ , goddammit, and their eyes widened and their lips tightened and they gestured for you to go right ahead.

You suck in a thin sheet of oxygen through your teeth. You want to hate the workers, but honestly, you don't come to visit very often and you're not surprised no one would recognize you as the kid's father. His mother comes to visit as often as she can and you've spent many nights alone in your bed due to her blind dedication to him. She resents you for not being there for him as much as she is. You resent her being so naïve. Nowadays the two of you are barely on speaking terms, and more than once you have thought to yourself that if the kid died, your marriage would follow suit. 

In scribbly handwriting at the top of the black paper he wrote "Me And My Friends". Between the other figures there is a wobbly amorphous figure with two black dots for eyes and ears like cauliflowers that clutches a ham. _Me_ , reads the arrow pointing to the figure. Above him is a bird that he colored in with white crayon. _The Bird_. To his left is a tall stick figure with enormous teeth in what looks to be a long doctor's coat named _The Tall Mister_ , and to his right is an enormous snowman in a tie that is labelled as _The Big Mister_.

You know nothing about any of the three characters, but you find it interesting that a six-year-old would draw such ominous-looking crows in the corner of the paper. It looks as though he lost his hold on the crayon many times throughout the picture (which doesn't surprise you; he's so _weak_ ) for there are many stray lines and scribbles throughout the paper. In the corner is a large sun with scarlet rays, and underneath it is the neaty written word "Mama".

Of course you're not there. No matter how hard you try you can't hide the disgust that curls your lip when you look at the tubes that penetrate his nostrils and connect to beeping machines. Can't hide the disappointment in your eye when you see him lying there, wheezing, so pathetic, so _weak_. The kid's mind is strong though; he's as sharp as a tack, and he knows damn well that you're the only person who won't be blinded by false hope. His mother, his doctor, the other workers -- they shower him with lies about his own recovery. You sit there and talk to him about meaningless things. Sometimes you stroke the small expanses of skin not covered by machinery, tapes or tubes. It's sad, how your own son is a stranger to his father. 

But you have to keep your distance. The last time you visited, a nurse gave you a couple of his drawings and on the back of one of them he had written _"I've run out of o x y g e n"_. You almost lost it. It took all your power to suppress yourself and wear a stoic expression without ripping the paper to shreds and howling in rage and desperation. A couple of days later it had just flown into your mind and you had to leave the game to regain your composure. Instead you screamed and sobbed and smashed your bat against the wall so hard it cracked. If any of the other players heard, they didn't say anything. You were grateful for that. 

You were not grateful for the man who had just sat down next to you. Even though you were turned away, you could _feel_ his gaze on you; through the corner of your eye you saw his figure turned towards you. You turned the paper over so he couldn't see the illustration and crossed your legs, eyes towards the window your son was in. Now the doctors were loading his frail little body onto a cart and were wheeling him to the operating room. He had been sleeping when you got here, and he was still sleeping now. Poor kid. You had opted to wait until the operation was over and see if he had enough strength left in him to crack his eyes open and see his daddy for the first time in months.

"Perdóname," the man says, and inwardly you curse him, for now that he's spoken to you, you have to turn and speak to him, and right now, the last thing you want to do is interact with another human being.

Because etiquette demands it, you turn around to acknowledge him. However, what etiquette _doesn't_ demand is you to bless him with a response, so you just look at him expectantly. He's got inky black hair that falls over his eyes and obscures his face in shadow (and what a strange face it is, you think; you roll your eyes over his features and think for a moment that he looks almost like a _frog_ ). He might seem mysterious if it weren't for his unblemished and youthful cinnamon-colored skin. On any other face his long neck and large ears would seem gawky, but you find that they fit quite perfectly with his wide and shapely face. From the shaggy state of his curly locks, you peg him as someone with an easygoing personality who doesn't take things too seriously and immediately judge him as the kind of person you prefer not to associate with. However, he seems pleased to have received your attention, and his fleshy lips curl upwards in a smile. 

"Sorry to intrude," he says in a warm, throaty voice, "But I couldn't help but overhear you saying that you are that boy's father." He points a stubby brown finger towards the room your son is being rolled out of, and you jerk your head towards him and open your mouth to make some harsh remark when he continues: "He's a friend of my daughter's. Good kid." He looks down at the paper you grip in your hands. "Good artist, too. He's got a gift that could take him far."

Despite yourself, your eyebrow twitches. Is he _serious_? All you care about is your kid surviving until the end of the day, and here is this man speaking confidently about his adulthood. Part of yourself is offended and horrified by his audacity, but your other half is mildly relieved-- and intrigued. 

"I wasn't aware that the kids were allowed to play together," you say.

"Oh yes!" He responds, smiling enthusiastically. "When they feel well enough, the children are allowed to go out to the playroom and socialize. Unfortunately," his smile drops like a tear, and his voice lowers. "My girl has a hard time getting along with the other kids. The others... don't really know how to handle her. But your son--" his face lights back up like a light switch "--is a wonderful friend to her. He seems to have a calming effect on her, and he's easily pleased by her antics, which is just lovely, since she's always loved being admired and paid attention to...she's always been quite spoiled. That's one thing that hasn't changed about her."

His calm and soothing voice halts, and there is silence for a minute as he looks intently at the floor. Perhaps he is recalling some distant memory of his daughter before she fell ill; from his words you assume that she must have been healthy at some point until she fell victim to some wanton illness. You know better than to ask, though, and soon enough he lifts his head and his inviting voice picks up again. "At any rate she thinks quite well of him and loves it when he draws pictures for her. Actually, they've begun trading pictures for candy. She'll give him some of her allowance candy if he draws pictures for her. I'm always showering her with gifts: mostly toys and candy," he explains. "She's still trying to teach him how to dance. He hasn't gotten the hang of it quite yet, but he's a quick learner." He chuckles and looks down, probably recalling some memory of your son trying--and failing-- to do the Charleston or tap-dance. 

You are quite alarmed to learn all of this; such exercise would surely strain your son's fragile health and cause him to relapse. It's quite irresponsible and you voice your worries that it might not be good for his health, to which the man besides you shakes his head. "I never leave my daughter's side," he admits. "I'm always monitoring her, making sure that she doesn't get herself, or anyone else, in trouble. So you don't have to worry at all, amigo; I watch her twenty-four seven."

Well, that's good. You give a curt nod, and he smiles at you. Now that you've been speaking to him for a while, you find him quite acceptable, maybe even likable. Strangely enough, you don't mind the fact that he has, apparently, been spending time with your son. In fact, you find yourself appreciating this man for giving your son a sense of normalcy that you couldn't on account of your job. He seems to be a sympathetic person, and you can easily imagine him soothing your son with his even and cheerful voice. 

"I actually quit my last job so that I could be closer to her," he's saying. "I used to work at a theme park, you know... but then my sweet had to be admitted. She was so terrified at first. She was inconsolable; she was afraid that I would leave her, just like her-- well. At any rate I work down at the shop on the first floor. It's nothing like my old job, but it's much calmer, I get to spend time with good people, and of course it allows me a close proximity to my daughter."

"I couldn't imagine that," you hear yourself saying, and you're startled, because it's so _rare_ that you confide in another person, and this is a complete stranger. 

"Yes, well, it's only temporary. When she gets better I'll go back to my old job, of course," he says, smoothing his hair and revealing his eyes. They're looking off to the side, and despite his chipper tone his cocoa irises glint with doubt. You feel a pang of sympathy for this man, for you know exactly where he is, chained to a severely damaged child, wanting desperately to hope for better days to return, yet knowing that nothing will ever be the same again. You wish you could have some of his optimism, that you still had that ray of innocence that grants you hope for your child's recovery, but you're far too old to lie to yourself and call it honor.

And although this man is a stranger to you, you feel like you _know_ him, so you show him mercy. "Of course." He gives you a tight, appreciative smile and the two of you look away. 

Your son has long since been wheeled away for his surgery, and as you sit here, besides this strange man that has a great deal in common with you, you wonder how much longer it is that you will have to wait. 

Without the man talking it begins to feel awkward. You find that you had enjoyed listening to him, his soft voice and his confidence that everything would be all right. Now you turn towards him and introduce yourself formally. He seems surprised that you are initiating conversation, but his surprise soon melts into a smile and he grasps your outstretched hand, introducing himself and adding that it is good to meet the father of such a good kid.

The two of you agree to go out and have coffee together sometime.


End file.
